


And the People Whispered

by ryanreynolds



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, No Incest, Sibling Love, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:46:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryanreynolds/pseuds/ryanreynolds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say the Lady Wolf of the North only ever looks happy, when she dances. They speak of her hair whirling as her dance partner swings her across the dance floor, blazing like it is a torch, and the Widlings murmurs of luck and being kissed by fire.</p><p>The cold of the Winter has seeped into Sansa's heart, and only dancing makes the ice swift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the People Whispered

**Author's Note:**

> The Sansa/Robb ship-tag is meant to be simply familial but uh, be my guest, if you want to read it as something else? please don't though:)
> 
> Russian translation: <https://ficbook.net/readfic/4597842/11895751>

They say the Lady Wolf of the North only ever looks happy, when she dances. They speak of her hair whirling as her dance partner swings her across the dance floor, blazing like it is a torch, and the Widlings murmur of luck and being kissed by fire.

The elder Northeners speak of when she danced with her older brother, the King in the North, the Young Wolf, and their voices are clouded with grief. They speak of children who sung songs of love and happiness, and how the world tore everything from them.

They say that when she danced with her brother, everything else seemed to disappear, and both of their eyes shone like diamonds. Their hair were Tully red and their eyes mirrored each other, they were as blue as the sky on a warm Summer day where no cloud shielded the azure blue of the never ending space.

But twas in the Summer, people agree, and neither of the siblings returned for a long time, when they rode to warmer lands. The common people whisper of how Starks are destined to die, when their horses turn South.

The Young Wolf never returned, instead he was dishonoured by his allies and humiliated in death, and though their Lady of Winterfell returned, there are those who wonder if it was not only a shell that returned, a body without spirit. As dead as the Lady Stoneheart, that in the tales roam the Riverlands, lusting for revenge for her family, and her oldest son. On the Freys, on the Lannisters, on everyone involved in the tragic Wedding of Red.

She wanders the castle, her hand in her smallest little brother’s, who look so like the Young Wolf, that many cannot bear to look at him, look into those eyes that belonged to someone else. He’s more wild though, and he is one of the only two who can make the ice in her eyes swift. Her once so beautiful eyes are grey and scarred like the lakes where upon the small children skate, and they say, her soul has turned to ice itself. The Long Winter is over, but the snow lingers in her heart.

But when she dances, oh, how hearts still at the memory of a Summer so long ago. No matter how grey the day, when she dances, she always catches the light. And a true smile will always grace her lips, as she twirls across the floor. In those moments, they swear, a greater beauty has never been seen.

And these are the tales that reach the Dragon Prince of the South’s ear, and his attention turns to the cold, dire North – ruled by the fair and just King Bran, loved by all, who possesses the power to see the wrongs of the past and confirm hopes for the future. A Raven with Three Eyes, they call him, like a character from a fairy tale.

His dragon lands by the foot of a tower, and like in the old songs, he can see the fire of her hair flickering in the dark from the highest window. Like a pure maiden waiting to be rescued by the fair Knight. But none who survived the Winter are pure, and so he looks at her and thinks of how he might love her even with all her scars and screams of terror in the night.

The King, her brother, looks at him with sad eyes and tells him, that if his sister says yes, he will bless the betrothal and the marriage that is to come. So he mounts the stairs, bows respectfully to the direwolves keeping guard in front of her room, and as they part he opens the door.

She sits in front of the fire, its embers making her eyes light up in a way he suspects they haven’t in a very long time, her dress is sprawled out around her like petals of the winter flowers growing in the gardens of Winterfell.

He bows to her, to her beauty and to her sadness. Her eyes bore into him, and he has survived the war against risen dead, but he feels like the grief in those lake eyes might bring him to his knees.

”Lady Sansa,” he says and a ghost of a smile flickers across her lips, and he thinks of how great her beauty might be when her smiles are true. He thinks that she might put the sun to shame.

When they depart, she clings to her little brothers, tears are falling from her eyes and colouring them as red as her hair. She whispers promises of her return, of love and of luck. Bran closes his hands around hers, and whatever he whispers seems to bring a fire into her eyes, and she presses a kiss to his cheek.

(People whisper about better times and how the two of them so resembles Sansa of the past with her brother Robb, and they mourn the loss of their Young Wolf once again.)

Days before their wedding, her screams wake everyone in the castle, and old maesters from the Lannister reign speak of horrific days in the throne room, of a little bird punished for her brother’s rebellion. He runs to her as fast as his legs can carry him, his blouse askew. When he reaches her room, a strange man has been commanded to the floor, but even with a sword at his throat, Aegon recognizes the look in the man’s eyes as want, as lust, and whitehot hate flares in his heart.

(The man is put to death, and he himself cuts his head off. She tells tales of her honourable father, and how the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.)

They marry and her lips are soft, and her blue eyes resemble the beautiful ocean surrounding the capital and he smiles. She smiles back, and he lets his forehead touch hers for a second before presenting her to the roaring crowd who welcomes their new Crown Princess. Spring has come and with it, happiness and dreams of a better world.

Years from then, as snowflakes fall quietly outside the windows of Winterfell, Bran will sit in front of the fire with a young woman at his side, her hair in a long braid and her eyes hardened by her suffering. He will tell her tales of her sister dancing in the most beautiful gowns, flowing across the floors, with her hands in her Dragon husband’s. He will speak of how the South had welcomed their Winter Princess, had hailed her as the Maiden Wolf of the North, and how destroyed eyes had healed with time, and how her smile had grown a little bigger with each passing moon.

And Arya will read the letters from her sister, beautiful words speaking of a child, hopefully a son, in her stomach, with fire in his veins and snow in his hair. "Is she happy?"

A few moments will pass before Bran looks to his little brother, to Shaggydog, to Summer, to Nymeria, and he will nod. "She looks as happy with him, as she did when she danced with Robb."

At that, Arya knows that her sister is truly happy, and that the lions and mockingbirds and the long Night no longer have a hold on her sister's dreams. That the fire of the Targaryen prince has thawed her sister's heart, and she smiles a true smile at the thought.

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own as this is not beta-read, and truth be told, hasn't really been reread for mistakes.
> 
> If you have any suggestions or simply liked the story, feel free to leave a comment or kudos - everything will be met with open arms :D
> 
> Come talk with me @ henrycaevill.tumblr.com if you want, I'm always dtt (down to talk)


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